Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 22. Chapter 22: The Guest; Fate's Choice

Chapter 22: The Guest; Fate's Choice

THE ACTIVITIES OF THE COURTYARD were in peaceful hiatus. Romanian men and boys – the ones assigned to clear dirt and debris from the well excavation – lounged and passed around a jug of ale.

The two Turkish slaves stood by the water barrel refreshing themselves; they were sweaty and naked except for their loincloths. Junayd placed his hands on his hips as he watched Ahmed drain a dipperful of water. After he sucked it all up, and once the dipper was lowered, the professional soldier's satisfied grunt turned into a wet-lipped grin for his companion. He refilled the scoop and carefully positioned the handle for the handsome dervish to take.

Junayd was gratified, and thought he'd tease the Herculean man in front of him, so he began a slow pour and lifted the scooper over his head. He never removed his eyes so he could watch Ahmed's reaction from behind the scintillation of moving water. He could see a lopsided grin lilt over the other man's lips, and he delighted in knowing the soldier did it because of the Sufi monk's playful antics.

Their private moment of repose was interrupted by a commotion. As Junayd shook excess water off of his head, he and Ahmed glanced towards the gatehouse.

Castle guards were gathering, and ant-like, passed some urgent intelligence singly from head to head.

The unmistakable sound of the massive outer portcullis being raised rumbled around the Turks, and even vibrated up through their feet through the cobblestones.

One guard, whom Junayd recognized as the leader of the castle's warders, walked towards them with his sword drawn. When he got close enough, he shouted, "You Turks there, put on your tunics – now!"

He continued to advance, but in the meantime, Ahmed looked for and found their clothes. Just as he handed Junayd's to him, the guard arrived and flashed his steel.

"You are to dress, and stand quietly against the wall." The tip of his weapon indicated an area across the court from the staircase leading up to the princely apartments.

Junayd was amazed to hear Ahmed say to the guard, "And why would we do that?" The man's tone was foolishly brazen. The dervish considered it had something to do with the Kapikulu's alert eyes flashing all up and down the tempting steel in front of him.

The guard walked straight up to Ahmed with intimidating speed. He lowered the elbow of his fighting arm, pressed the back of his hand into Ahmed's groin and pointed the sword tip straight under the slave's chin.

Ahmed stood erect as the guard applied some upward pressure. "Slaves," the man said acrimoniously. "Do not ask why – they do as they are ordered."

Junayd put a hand on Ahmed's naked and sweaty bicep, which he instantly could feel was flexing in rage. He reassured the aggressor guard in a placating tone, "Yes. We will do as we are told." And simultaneously he yanked Ahmed from under the Hungarian's blade.

The guard stepped back and watched with hostile intent as the two men dressed.

Junayd's eyes flashed respectful glances between the two hotheads to ensure the situation was defused. But his focus quietly settled on Ahmed. Suddenly he remembered the night Ahmed had mysteriously disappeared.

The dervish awoke to the light rustling of the blankets being arranged over him. In his sleepy mind he knew it must still be the middle of the night, and he puzzled why Ahmed was just now descending into bed. The older man reeked of adrenaline, sweat and ale.

"It's been hours, where have you been?"

Ahmed's only reply was, "Taking care of a problem for you."

"What do you mean?" Junayd sat up.

Ahmed sat up too, quickly taking Junayd's hand.

"I mean, you never have to worry about the supervisor again."

Now in the courtyard, the dervish was reminded of how intense Ahmed had seemed in the darkness of their cell, and how determined too.

The newly-dressed men moved into position with hands behind their backs, and their backs against the wall. The guard paced before them, then shouted instructions at the Romanians to clean up and stand next to the Turks.

Junayd glanced at Ahmed's strong features in profile. He told him quietly, "Thank you."

Ahmed scowled a moment with dipping eyebrows, but that turned into a part-lipped grin for the young man.

Junayd leaned over so he could whisper, "You always make me feel safe, soldier. You make me love you like a brother."

When the dervish pulled back his glance, he was not expecting to see his companion look so emotional. In another moment, Ahmed blinked, and responded with, "Soon the well will be dug, and we can get out of here."

"Ahmed – brother – the goal is not completing any particular task, but in relishing the journey with whom it is undertaken."

Again, to Junayd's eyes it looked like Ahmed was sad – sad but determined.

Horses' hooves were suddenly heard. They approached from far away and then sounded loudly on the wooden bridge just beyond the castle gate.

The guard sheathed his weapon and came to attention by standing in front of the gap between the Turks.

Two men entered the courtyard on horseback.

One was Razvan, and Junayd watched Ahmed tense as soon as he saw the second rider. "It's him," the professional soldier whispered.

"It's who?"

"The man Mehmed put on the throne of Walachia, who then – "

"Silence," the guard growled.

Castle grooms appeared to rein in the horses and the riders dismounted. More attendants rushed to slip the dust-encrusted riding cloaks off of them.

Razvan gestured with open hands and lowered head towards the grand staircase.

The guest patted himself down a moment and glanced around the open court.

Junayd thought maybe it was a piece of practical training: get the lay of the terrain before advancing into unknown territory. His cold glance alighted upon Junayd and momentarily sent a shiver down his spine; it was accompanied by the rumble coming up through his feet as the outer portcullis was being lowered into place again. Finally the dignitary proceeded, and the dervish could sense Ahmed's mounting tension. It was as if that man's body had begun to vibrate and send out waves of heat in all directions.

As the guest placed his hand on the banister and started ascending, Junayd knew his companion was about to explode. He inched his hand from between his back and the rough stone of the wall.

By the time he was about to touch him, it was too late.

A spiteful shout in Turkish echoed throughout every corner of the courtyard: "Vlad! A traitor to all Ottomans!"

Three things happened at once: Junayd felt Ahmed's indignancy as a sweltering heat where his palm gripped the older man's arm; the guard spun around with raised forearm and jammed it under Ahmed's throat, pinning the captive's head to the wall; and Vlad, the prince of Walachia, paused.

He was halfway up the stairs when he stood still and kicked out his hands in an unafraid gesture to support himself on the stone handrail. He shouted in Hungarian, "Leave him!"

The guard blinked, and instinctively did as commanded by one he regarded as a superior. He eased his pressure on Ahmed's throat, and the Turk took a gasping breath.

"Let me see him," Vlad called out calmly. The dervish glanced and saw the prince was still leaning, but rapt to the spot on the formal staircase. The prince's demeanour was beyond intimidating with his coal-black eyes, and long hair and moustache.

The slightly confused guard slowly stepped aside, letting Ahmed completely free.

As Vlad's withering glance passed over Junayd to settle once again on Ahmed, a chill of unaccountable fright gripped the young man's heart.

The prince glared unflinchingly at Ahmed, and in perfect Turkish, he told the enslaved man, "We do not choose our fate; it chooses us."

˚˚˚˚˚

The Knights' Hall was the great assembly chamber of the castle.

It was dinnertime, and courtiers sat at two long tables positioned to be at right angles to the shorter one at the head of the room.

Musicians played from the central niche in the outer wall. The castle's thick ramparts left more than enough room for small alcoves to be carved out.

Pages ferried a seemingly endless parade of filled chargers from the kitchens, and humbly exited with emptied ones.

From one corner, Maestro Gelli observed the order and quantity of the same dish for the different tables. Any slight variance or deviation from the battle plan, and his underling – the Master of the Service – would be replaced, especially when a dignitary no less than a prince sat at Gelli's board.

The guest of honour watched it all with detachment.

He sat between the lord and lady of the place, and wished he were back to oversee his duties at home.

Razvan served as the prince's personal attendant while he was dining, as Vlad had eschewed any entourage on this urgent trip. That subservient man appeared next to the guest's elbow. He held a silver ewer with rough-cut sapphires and aquamarines set into it.

Lord Laszlo leaned towards his guest and said, "It's the best Hungarian vintage white wine, it's sure to please."

Razvan filled the prince's chalice, while Vlad witnessed Laszlo gently tap the base of his own cup. As if by magic, a handsome pageboy stepped from behind him to fill it. He assumed the lady's vessel was already full, as she made no motions for her servant to moisten it.

The prince frankly told his host and hostess, "I am anxious to talk of our alliance. I need to return to my kingdom to maintain order. I'm afraid my brother Radu is a bit soft-hearted concerning political matters."

Lady Gretza sparkled with a restrained intensity. "Talk of state affairs can wait until tomorrow. Tonight let us have rest and libations." She added with a menacing twinkle, "Besides, not to split hairs, but Walachia is a principality, and not a kingdom."

From the centre of Vlad's psychic soul, he knew this woman was no good – but, in his opinion, most women weren’t – yet, this Hungarian princess was rotten in the same way that a well-studied priest of God is 'good.'

He felt her powers, and knew instinctively they were now being diverted to bolster the deception that all was well. But he had never once in his life been intimidated by a 'mere' woman, and he was not going to start now.

The musicians played merrily, and the crowd supped with quiet conversation and hardy partaking of Maestro Gelli's delights.

Lord Laszlo raised his cup to his two companions. "Here's to new partnerships." Vlad saw that Laszlo waited until the prince and his wife lifted their chalices too, then all three drank to the dregs.

While their vessels were being refilled, Vlad rubbed his tongue over his palate. There was a dry, off taste there; it was almost like a tingle.

"Your Magyar wine," he chuckled. "Has a funny taste to my Romanian lips."

The other two laughed, and Vlad re-focused on wearing down Lady Gretza's psychic defences. "Your man here has told me your ladyship maintains a bear pit in this castle."

"Why, yes. We do."

"I too have my own at Targoviste, but there I prefer to house and exhibit more exotic beasts."

"Lions?" Laszlo asked.

"Oh, no. Not big cats. Would Your Ladyship care to guess?" A palpable wave of jealousy radiated out from the woman to Vlad.

"Prince, guessing is so tiresome," she said, trying to sound disinterested about the topic one way or the other. "Why don’t you tell us?"

The commotion of the hall seemed to dim momentarily; it was as if the assembled courtiers and regional land squires who made up the guests were used to the blowing ill winds of their lord's wife. In another moment, the merriment of the flute and lyre picked up tempo to compensate the leaden sink to the atmosphere.

Vlad said in a confidential tone, "I will tell you. I keep shape-shifters. Men caught vomiting human limbs, then collared and chained until time proved that were indeed cursed with lycanthropy."

Laszlo appeared to the prince's eyes as supremely uncomfortable. "Your Highness jests, surely."

"Oh no, my Hungarian Lord. We Romanians are afflicted, or some would say blessed, with creatures of the countryside who are half devil and half man." He sunk these words into Lady Gretza to see if she would flinch. She did not.

"Do not, My Lordship," she gently chided her husband. "Doubt the word of one so formidable as Prince Vlad."

The potentate in question laughed, and took a sip of wine – somehow, the flavour was improving.

"Do you treat them well?" Lady Gretza acted as if she expected tales of abuse and derogation as reward to her piqued interest.

"I'm afraid I do, My Lady. In my care they are treated as people deserving of respect. I allow them to be themselves, and I allow their animal two-natures to feed freely when the transition overtakes them."

"What do you mean?" Laszlo asked, making a puzzled scowl.

"I mean, that whereas society would strip them, tie them to stakes in the ground and wait until they transformed with the intent of torturing them to death, I let them live in my castle as valued guests, and then open my bear pit to them when their craven hunger for human flesh becomes too much. When this happens I and my selected guests can be entertained while they feed on the living viscera of true criminals and traitors to me. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement, and my lycopanths are grateful to their lord and master – they are also loyal to me to a fault."

"Loyalty is a noble attribute, Prince." Lord Laszlo could not quite hide the tone of impatience from creeping into his voice. He tapped the base of Vlad's chalice and Razvan stepped forward to refill it.

"I hear," Vlad said as he leaned towards Lord Laszlo with sly intent to rankle. "That our family histories are complex in some similar ways." The prince could perceive that Laszlo was easy to penetrate with the force of his will.

"Yes. My brother was put on the throne of Hungary at age fifteen. And you were only two years older when the Turks gave you an army to retake Walachia as the principality's regent."

"Sad business that my father and older brother were murdered by a Hungarian-backed peasant revolt, one instigated by your father, but, as they say – it's all water under the bridge now."

"I'll drink to that." Lady Gretza broke the quickly escalating tension by raising her cup.

The men were forced to follow suit.

After they drank, Lady Gretza interjected, "You were brave to turn your back on that heathenish sultan and keep your territory firmly in Christendom."

Vlad saw her go on in a more salacious tone; she even bothered to wet her lips. "You are now thirty, and as experienced as any monarch against the Turks, but – are all the stories true concerning your methods?"

"Methods, My Lady?" In another instant, Vlad felt an unaccountable flush of erotic heat flow from the woman.

"Is it true that for your defence of Targoviste, you impaled ten thousand people – Romanian men, women and children – just to form a sort of palisade around your castle?"

The assembled again seemed to inhale in anticipation. The music faded as every ear strained to hear the story.

"It was worse than that, My Lady," Vlad boasted with barely suppressed pride. "Imagine the scene. There I was, alone, without allies, without a single offer of reinforcement from any 'Christian' king. And yet, I was the last bulwark to keep the infidels out of the heart of Europe. This was Mehmet's second invasion, and in addition to staking peasants, I salted their lands, I slaughtered their livestock to rot on the roads, I burned their hovels and barns, and poisoned their wells with arsenic. I did it all to ensure that the sultan's army found no succour in Walachia. They slowly, painfully fought their way to Targoviste on empty bellies, and parched as a dry bone. But when they got there and saw mile upon mile of writhing bodies forming my last defence, they retreated, saying 'Now truly we have seen the son of the Devil.' So, I regret to reveal that Your Ladyship was misinformed. It was actually twenty thousand men, women and children who were impaled – all of them my own subjects."

In Vlad's perception, Lord Laszlo revealed a horrified revulsion. And thus, the prince pitied him as weak. For one in Laszlo's position not to have a stomach for 'war,' was a crime. Clearly between them, the lord was the less potent of the two, and the prince noted it for later use.

Razvan appeared once more. He hovered, and Vlad drained his cup so that the attendant might fill it again. Vlad began to feel a tad bit tired. He shook it off.

Lady Gretza chatted busily, "Why did your father call himself Dracul? To scare the Turks?"

"So, Your Ladyship knows that dracul means devil in Romanian, but when my father joined the Holy Roman Emperor's Order of the Dragon, he found there was no word in Romanian for that beast. He chose dracul because it was phonetically close, and yes, also because it would scare his enemies."

"So," Lady Gretza laughed, letting her guard slip a little. "It's a name you have tried to live up to?!"

In all seriousness, Vlad replied, "Yes. I have."

The crowd seemed shocked in a reserved way; glances passed between the men, and the ladies felt colour rising on their cheeks.

He had a flash of insight about her; a notion of where her seat of power lay.

Vlad drained his chalice with eyes trained coldly on his cupbearer. There seemed to be only a black nihility where once the heart of Razvan used to be. It was almost as if that minion were an automaton who only aped human actions to please his mistress.

"You know," Vlad put on false courtesy for his hostess. "I have heard about some of the sites of your country. One of which is a mysterious woods where people seems to vanish, only to return years later as hollow shells of their old selves. Do you, Lady Gretza, know of whence I speak?"

The prince witnessed her go ashen. As he had expected, he had discovered the seat of her powers as a sorceress.

"Some old wives' tales," interjected Lord Laszlo with dismissive interest, "speak of a forest named after a shepherd who disappeared within it – he and two hundred sheep – just gone without a trace."

Vlad felt a bit light-headed; a sharpened intensity radiated off of Lady Gretza towards him. All at once a profound sense of danger overwhelmed the prince; the aftertaste on the back of his throat reared in his senses to be as bitter as gall. He tensed his legs muscles to rise, but the drug coursing through his veins interfered with his ability to draw his sword.

Standing, tottering to the point of needing to put his hands on the table lest he fall, he scanned the faces of the room of people, and they all suddenly seemed hostile. He felt like prey being stalked, or like a tangled insect in a spider's web; in both cases it was Lady Gretza who was the huntress.

He forced a focus on Laszlo. "I must get back to the front lines as soon as possible."

In a blinding moment, Razvan withdrew the prince's sword, and Vlad tried to spring around but wound up tipping the table. Silver plates, flatware, and chargers of food all went crashing to the floor with the linen tablecloth slithering down the vertical plane of the boards to shroud them.

People leapt to their feet, and several of the realm's knights drew their swords. Women screamed; Maestro Gelli was beside himself with disappointment.

Vlad barely stayed on his feet but shouted, "Radu is weak, if he ever becomes leader, the Turkish hordes will be sieging the walls of this castle in a matter of months!"

Razvan turned the prince's sword pommel first, and presented it to Lord Laszlo.

Vlad stepped back and drowsily felt the stone of the wall stop him. His eyes aimlessly rolled up to take the shadows of the heraldic banners and stone-vaulted ceiling of the Knights' Hall into the back of his vision. He tried to focus again; guards were advancing and about to seize him.

He saw Lady Gretza lay her fingers stickily on her husband's arm – the arm brandishing his own sword against him – as if giving her man a signal.

Lord Laszlo puffed out his chest, but Vlad could sense the man was afraid. "Vlad, I place you under arrest for the betrayal of Christ. I do so in the name of the Holy Roman Emperor and the Pope." Then to the guards, he said, "Take him."

The prince was seized by the upper arms and manhandled into a fully standing position. The sluggish weight of the drugged man put tremendous strain on his arm bones. The guards jostled him roughly, and his armpits felt like they were on fire. As if in some drunken nightmare, Vlad helplessly felt himself be dragged away. His feet quickly stumbled and the Hungarian captors simply hauled him half-slumped into the centre of the Knights' Hall.

The crowd made a consistently low noise of excitement. Murmurs and disgusted sounds greeted Vlad's ears as he was pulled without any dignity through the mass of spectators.

Laszlo led the way, and shooed away the musicians from the niche with Vlad's flashing blade. Once the area was cleared, the lord of the place bent down on one knee and pulled at a ringbolt on the floor. A wooden trap door that was heavily strapped with iron hinges and decorations slowly came up.

A fetid dank arose and instantly assailed the captor's nose, for below this hall was apparently an oubliette – a deep pit of a dungeon from whence it was impossible to climb out. Such places were big enough only to trap one or two men at a time.

Vlad tried to focus his last strain of coherent energy and will on the weak link. As the guards drug him up the few marble steps to the niche, he spoke with clarity, and was sure his message was hitting Laszlo hard in the chest. "Beware of her, Laszlo. You are in more danger than I am. As for me, my confinement will give me plenty of time to devise a suitably powerful malediction against you, and against your house."

Lady Gretza suddenly screamed in unbridled anger, "Take him away!" She moved over and again laid a grip of withering strength on her husband's arm, but Vlad knew his message had had its impact. He saw that the man with the stolen sword looked sick to his stomach.

As the guards began to shove the prisoner-prince down the oubliette ladder, and as Vlad's head slowly sunk below the level of the floor, he glowered at Laszlo and said very calmly, "Mark my words, I have power over you – and mine will prove greater than hers."